During his tenure as SS Reichsführer Himmler’s adjutant for industrial affairs, his brief had been to ensure that manpower requirements necessary to run their plants at full capacity were met. He was Himmler’s golden boy in those days, in charge of negotiating contracts between Germany’s most important industrial concerns and the SS main office for the transport, and delivery, of foreign impressed labor, mostly Jews and
mischlings
from Poland and Russia. Suddenly it was clear why they were meeting in an air raid bunker and not in Egon’s living room. Like him, Weber and Schnitzel were wanted by the Allied powers for war crimes. Slave labor, no doubt. Not everyone could be declared “necessary to the rebuilding of Germany.”
“Gentlemen, this isn’t a coffee-klatsch,” said Egon, flitting between them at his usual frenetic pace. “We have much to discuss and little time. Help yourself to brandy and cigars, then let’s get started.”
Schnitzel and Weber poured themselves generous snifters of VSOP, then took their places on a maroon velvet couch. Seyss sat across from them, choosing an antique armchair. Nothing like a little discomfort to focus the mind on matters at hand.
“Germany is in ruins,” declared Egon Bach as he slipped down between Schnitzel and Weber. “We have no electricity. Sewage is kaput. No mail has been delivered since April. We no longer have a government, a police force, or even a soccer team. Coal is more expensive than caviar and cigarettes are worth more than both of them together.
Verrückt!
Crazy!”
“We are a divided people,” said Weber, picking up the baton. Dressed in a severe black suit, monocle in his eye, he was the embodiment of his native Prussia. The Allies have split the country into four zones of occupation. The British have taken the Ruhr and the North. The French, the Rhineland and Saar. The Americans control the center from Bavaria to Niedersachsen, and the Russians have stolen the East.”
“Our industry is in ruins,” continued Schnitzel. “Frankfurt, Cologne, Mannheim—all leveled. Young Bach here lost seventy of his ninety plants. Sixty percent of his production capability wiped out.” A short white-haired man who had lost his right leg at the Somme in 1916, Schnitzel wore his crutches and neatly pinned trousers more proudly than any medal. Friends and enemies alike knew him as the Stork. “I’m hardly better off. Fifty-five percent of my factories have been damaged beyond repair.”
“But salvageable,” added Weber. “None of our companies have been forced to stop production completely. Give us five years and we can bring our output back to what it was before the war. The key to the revival of Germany is the rebuilding of our industry.”
“If we are permitted to do so,”
said Egon. “The Allies have forbidden us to reconstruct our plants. They want to dismantle the forges, blast furnaces, and steel works, that survived the war and cart them off to France and England, even, God forbid, to Russia. A crew of American engineers is scheduled to dismantle our fifteen-thousand-ton press next week. They’ll probably ship the damn thing to New Jersey and use it to make guns for their battleships.”
Perched on the edge of his seat, Seyss listened with a rapt silence. The recounting of his country’s pillage stoked his anger as a breeze fans a fire. And though he said nothing, his mind was churning. What could be so important that Weber and Schnitzel had risked arrest to see him? Why this lengthy preamble? Why the persuasive pitch to their voices, the pleading gleam to their eyes? There was no need to convince him. He was a soldier. He did what he was told.
He’d imagined that he’d been summoned from Garmisch to help a
kamerad
escape the country—Bormann, perhaps, Eichmann, maybe even the Führer. There were rumors Hitler was alive, that the corpses in the Reich Chancellery belonged to his double and Eva Braun’s sister. Clearly that wasn’t
mischlings
from Poland and Russia. Suddenly it was clear why they were meeting in an air raid bunker and not in Egon’s living room. Like him, Weber and Schnitzel were wanted by the Allied powers for war crimes. Slave labor, no doubt. Not everyone could be declared “necessary to the rebuilding of Germany.”
“Gentlemen, this isn’t a coffee-klatsch,” said Egon, flitting between them at his usual frenetic pace. “We have much to discuss and little time. Help yourself to brandy and cigars, then let’s get started.”
Schnitzel and Weber poured themselves generous snifters of VSOP, then took their places on a maroon velvet couch. Seyss sat across from them, choosing an antique armchair. Nothing like a little discomfort to focus the mind on matters at hand.
“Germany is in ruins,” declared Egon Bach as he slipped down between Schnitzel and Weber. “We have no electricity. Sewage is kaput. No mail has been delivered since April. We no longer have a government, a police force, or even a soccer team. Coal is more expensive than caviar and cigarettes are worth more than both of them together.
Verrückt!
Crazy!”
“We are a divided people,” said Weber, picking up the baton. Dressed in a severe black suit, monocle in his eye, he was the embodiment of his native Prussia. The Allies have split the country into four zones of occupation. The British have taken the Ruhr and the North. The French, the Rhineland and Saar. The Americans control the center from Bavaria to Niedersachsen, and the Russians have stolen the East.”
“Our industry is in ruins,” continued Schnitzel. “Frankfurt, Cologne, Mannheim—all leveled. Young Bach here lost seventy of his ninety plants. Sixty percent of his production capability wiped out.” A short white-haired man who had lost his right leg at the Somme in 1916, Schnitzel wore his crutches and neatly pinned trousers more proudly than any medal. Friends and enemies alike knew him as the Stork. “I’m hardly better off. Fifty-five percent of my factories have been damaged beyond repair.”
“But salvageable,” added Weber. “None of our companies have been forced to stop production completely. Give us five years and we can bring our output back to what it was before the war. The key to the revival of Germany is the rebuilding of our industry.”
“If we are permitted to do so,”
said Egon. “The Allies have forbidden us to reconstruct our plants. They want to dismantle the forges, blast furnaces, and steel works, that survived the war and cart them off to France and England, even, God forbid, to Russia. A crew of American engineers is scheduled to dismantle our fifteen-thousand-ton press next week. They’ll probably ship the damn thing to New Jersey and use it to make guns for their battleships.”
Perched on the edge of his seat, Seyss listened with a rapt silence. The recounting of his country’s pillage stoked his anger as a breeze fans a fire. And though he said nothing, his mind was churning. What could be so important that Weber and Schnitzel had risked arrest to see him? Why this lengthy preamble? Why the persuasive pitch to their voices, the pleading gleam to their eyes? There was no need to convince him. He was a soldier. He did what he was told.
He’d imagined that he’d been summoned from Garmisch to help a
kamerad
escape the country—Bormann, perhaps, Eichmann, maybe even the Führer. There were rumors Hitler was alive, that the corpses in the Reich Chancellery belonged to his double and Eva Braun’s sister. Clearly that wasn’t
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